


The Might Boosh Halloween Special of Doom 2015 Chapter 13

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:50:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5266823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard has to use a little Fusion Vodoun to save the world--or Vince--or both (depending on whether Fossil gets elected, which is out of my hands).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Might Boosh Halloween Special of Doom 2015 Chapter 13

Howard has always considered himself a man of simple pleasures. He likes simple outfits consisting of, at most, two colours, ideally in muted shades, though he's willing to get a little funky with the patterns. He prefers his foods easily identifiable on the plate--no casseroles for him, Sir. One Christmas, Fossil had brought something called Turducken to the Zooniverse potluck. Vince had declared it genius, with due apologies to the families of the deceased, but Howard had been repulsed. There was a reason they made those little plates with sections on them--and Vince was wrong, as they did make sectioned plates for adults as well.

Likewise, with the living. Howard has no fondness for ligers or mules or even boutique-bred dogs with names that end in poo. At the Zooniverse, he took special pride in keeping the animals in their proper places. At the Nabootique, pencils and pens each have a place of their own.

Some might see him as narrow-minded, but they did not have thankfully hazy memories of intimate relations with seamonster-mermen with downstairs mixups (and, from what he could see, mixups in the upstairs brainpan area as well).

Thus, for a man like Howard, it takes a great deal of persistent, blind denial to continue to move through the upside-down world into which he's been born.

He's always found a great deal of solace in Vince. Vince is by no means pure. He is, as he'd once put it, “the Confuser.” His wardrobe is all the colours of the rainbow--sometimes in one Technicolour dreamcape. Only underneath, where it counted, Vince Noir is… Simple.

This fake Vince taunting him with exotic delights has everything right but the eyes. Vince's big, blue eyes take in the world with delight. He hears the monsters are coming and part of him--the part that trusts Howard to protect him--thinks hurray! A Halloween party!

Now, Vince is elbowing Howard in the gut and whispering (none too quietly), “Fossil’s mum looks like Fossil with a wig. Wonder what his dad looks like. Think he's like Mrs. Fossil in a different wig?”

Howard forces himself to smile and nod, ignoring the substance of Vince's chatter but relieved at the sound of it. His suspicions have been building but, with the arrival of Mrs. Fossil, Howard feels it’s time to bring the charade to an end.

“Vince, this isn't Nan’s house.” He says it softly, under his breath. The words have a weight to them, like the breaking of a spell.

“You mean we're not in Leeds anymore?”

“Yes, Toto. That's exactly what I mean,” Howard replies, keeping a sharp eye on the imposters in the room. “I think, if you look closely, you'll see that we never left London at all.

Vince nods his head and taps his nose, but Howard can see that he's confused.

“Just follow my lead, Little Man. I put a spell on you.”

“Alright, Howard. You did? When'd you do that?”

Howard clears his throat. “”No--the song, Vince. Sing it with me.”

“It's not really my--”

“I put a spell on you,” Howard shouts out, daring the Spirit of Jazz to come forth. Jazz has always been his family's way to make magic, and he's never been very good at it, but this time, he gathers as much power as he can and prays that he does justice to Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ vodoun.

The room, which had fallen to a strange quiet, begins to stir again.

“Because you're mine,” Howard continues, slinging an arm around Vince's shoulder and pulling him in close.

Old Gregg jumps up and moves toward them, menacingly, but Saboo thinks fast and grabs hold of his long veil and yanks it back, forcing him back to his seat.

Vince, who'd begun to clap along to the beat, grins as a tambourine suddenly appears in his right hand.

“You better stop the things that you do,” Howard screams, rumbles, and almost cries.

Vince hits his tambourine on his thigh and catches the rhythm, looking like a very white, fairly Soulless Sammy Davis Junior, complete with flares and heeled boots.

“Now sing it with me,” Howard says. “I ain't lyin!”

“No, you ain't lyin’,” Vince echoes.

“I just can't stand it babe. The way you're always runnin' 'round. I just can't stand it, the way you always put me down.” Howard has to take a deep breath, hoping his voice isn't giving too much away. “I put a spell on you because you're mine,” he concludes.

His voice is rough by the end of it, and his legs tremble from singing so much truth all at once.

“W-what's happening?” Vince asks. The room’s seats are trembling. The floor is showing splits and cracks like an earthquake, and Howard drags Vince out of the way just as a gaping hole opened up in the center.

Everyone in the room leans forward a little to look into the hole, but Howard holds Vince back. He gestures at Old Gregg, who's gotten up and, this time ignoring them, hitches up his dress and walks right up to the edge of the maw.

Howard hears it first--the tinkling sound of a vibraphone. A little Cal Tjader. A little Horace Silver. And then the unmistakable intellectual sound of Milt Jackson’s Modern Jazz Quartet playing “Soul Fusion” comes out of the ground.

“What?”

“Shh. Listen.” The music is bright, funky, the perfect fusion of classical and soul and jazz.

The dark, seductive not-Vince appears from a shadowy corner of the room and he saunters over to the maw, stopping just on the other side from the edge where Old Gregg is teetering on his white pumps.

As they watch, not-Vince starts to strip off his clothing, his fair body transforming as they watch, one moment covered in rags, the next a shiny, withered, knobby-kneed green, at last a deep black from the tips of his boots to the mass of locks moving beneath his hat like eels.

“My my my,” not-Nan says, sounding a bit shocked.

“Why, are those..? Oops, they are. Mirrors. Well, I never, but I'm certainly willing to try! Come over here, magic man and let a lady check her lipstick.” Not-Mrs. Fossil, apparently fascinated by not-Vince’s mirror-balls, begins edging closer to them, at last falling to her knees beside him.

Saboo, who, up till that moment, Howard assumed was not-Saboo, proves to be himself by making a retching sound as Mrs. Fossil presses her lips up against a tiny, faceted mirror, leaving a bright, orange kiss-print before she disappears in a haze of cheap perfume.

Not-Tommy, still in his seat, makes a strange sizzling sound, shouted out, “I'm melting!” and disappeared into a bubbling puddle of cheese.

Howard sees with relief that his parents, along with his Nan, have simply vanished with the kind of boring understatement people commonly expect from the Moon family.

And then Vince grabs hold of Howard's hand and holds tight.

They watch, together, as both Old Gregg and not-Vince jump into the pitt, meeting together at the center only to fall downward into the pitt, which closes up around them, cutting off the final strains piano, bass, drums, and vibe.

“That was ‘Soul Fusion’, yeah?” Vince whispers, sounding, for once, properly awed.

“Yes it was, little man.”

“Not bad. Looks like the lovely princess got her beast.”

Howard nods, realizing he still has hold of Vince's hand. “I suppose it's in the eye of the beholder.”

“Do you think he, uh, ate her?”

Howard sees the regret on Vince's face as he hears his own question echo in the now empty room.

“Some mysteries are best left unsolved,” Howard answers, though, having seen the light himself, he has his own suspicions.

**Author's Note:**

> I hereby pass this on to littleredchucks. This was fun, which may mean I did it all wrong, which would mean I booshed it up!


End file.
